Not Even a Crumb

Ask The Organizer...

by Devora Farrell of ThisOrganized, LLC

Oh, c’mon. Do you really think I’m going to chastise you over the way in which you do/don’t clean for Pesach? Or that I’ll remind you that “dust is not chometz and your children are not the korban Pesach?” Or that if you’re exhausted or well-rested, it’s a sign that whatever you’re doing/not doing is wrong? Nope. This article is intended to be mind-candy, a sweet break from your current goings-on.

At a day meal in Los Angeles, hosted by warm, careful friends of ours, everything visible covered with foil, contact paper, and/or plastic corrugated cardboard and tape. Lots of tape.  The pre-set air conditioner turns on, attempting to cool us off in the desert climate, positioned right above the dining room table. In addition to refrigerated air, stale bread crumbs spray out of the wide-reaching open vents. As we all freeze (not from the cooling room) and scream (not with joy), the backstory becomes clear: the creative, resourceful son had witnessed his mother remove the dust-saturated filter from the front of the unit, and replaced it with a clean one. As best as we could figure, the boy either thought that a slice of bread might be interchangeable with a filter. Or, the filter slot resembled that of a toaster. Either way, the husband flew out of the house to ask the Rav what to do. I choked back my laughter, and struggled to be appropriately empathic.

It was a long but pleasant walk to the home of the family who had invited us to join them for a Pesach meal. We pushed the stroller (there was a reliable eruv) to the warm, thoroughly experienced-in-Pesach-observance family. Each course was even more delicious than its predecessor, crescendo-ing in fudgy brownies. They were so yummy, I exclaimed, “Wow! These must be chometz!” The mother smiled graciously, taking the compliment as it was intended. The brownie plate made its way all around the table, and I was surprised that my normally-choco-holic three year old daughter refused her dessert serving. On the way home, I asked her, “Numi, don’t you like brownies?” “Yes,” she replied. “Then why didn’t you take one?” I queried. “Because you said they were chometz.” After a short pause, I commented, “But you saw me eating them…?” Her answer? “I thought you didn’t know any better.”

I was excited to be invited to a Lubavitch seder, never having experienced one before. I knew that they tended to be creative and very, very child-friendly, but that’s about all I knew. I assumed that Pesach was Pesach no matter where you are. We were finally up to the meal part, and I eagerly awaited the chicken soup, my favorite! (Subtitles: Lubavitch, like many Chassidic sects, is extra careful never to let the matzah come in contact with liquid – a combination called “gebrokts”—in fact, adherents even eat their matzah into a plastic bag to decrease the risk) I gratefully accepted my soup bowl, golden and glistening (yum, chicken fat). I then took my matzah and began to crumble it into my soup, something I’d always done at the seder. Several family members simultaneously shrieked, “GEBROKTS!” and one hastily grabbed my bowl and threw the whole thing out the window. They didn’t offer me a replacement. Lesson learned.

At some point, we and our extended family began celebrating Pesach together in a hotel, courtesy of Grandma and Grandpa. Most of the children were older and even more involved in the Pesach-goings on than before. There was friendly competition between the cousins. Came time to hide the afikomen, with each child envisioning their individual expensive ransom, should the matzah not be found by the searching parents. The children’s eyes were focused on each other’s behavior, silently making note of which child was in possession of the afikomen and where they were hiding it. They would then remove it from its intended location and re-hide it somewhere else so that they now would be in charge of bargaining for the matzah needed to complete the seder. Each one applauded him/herself for his/her ingenuity in outsmarting the system to secure their desired object being offered in exchange. There were seven children present at the time and each one re-hid the afikomen multiple times in multiple locations. The adults quickly gave up on trying to uncover the matzah’s hiding place. The negotiations were on. After a new car was discarded as the beginning bargaining point, offers and counteroffers flew back and forth across the seder table. Finally, finally, an agreement was struck, the hidden matzah needing to be returned to secure the contract. The children got up from the table, each assuming the afikomen to be in the last place they put it. Ten minutes went by, then twenty, then a half hour. The adult attendees were beyond exhausted, the children, still operating under the influence of adrenaline and caffeine-laden cola, returned to the table, mystified and matzah-less. That afikomen was never seen again. The assumption was that the particularly attentive waitstaff found it and discarded it.

This one also involves a waiter. One year, we all attended a particularly luxurious resort-based Pesach program (again, thanks to Grandma and Grandpa). I quickly noticed the frequent sheitel-to-shoe analysis of the cumulative cost of my outfits by the attendees and subsequent you-are-invisible-to-me lack of eye contact. Definitely not my usual social group. I continued to wear the same clothes from morning ‘til evening, most days. We were happy to keep to ourselves and celebrate Pesach with our usual puns and prose, profound and peculiar (like all that alliteration?). We only knew how to be who we were, despite the icy atmosphere in the communal dining room. Our waiter saw some of our children folding the cloth napkins into various shapes, whether a peacock, bishop’s miter, or fortune teller. To the delight of our children, he contributed one of his own: bunny ears, and placed the folded napkin as a hat on the head of one of them, a birthday celebrant. The kids busily got started, origami-ing their napkins similarly, and donning their creations. Not to be outdone, and under the particular circumstances, the adults at our table got into the act until we were all wearing bunny ears and laughing ’til our sides hurt. The glances from the other tables betrayed their owners’ bafflement as to the meaning of our silliness. At each subsequent meal, we welcomed more and more visitors, assuming that if we were that non-conforming, we might be rich, famous, or somehow advantageous to know…or perhaps they just wanted to join us in our fun. One of the shadchanim (matchmakers) present asked me eagerly if I was interested in hearing about a family who noticed my then-20-year-old son and wondered if he might be an appropriate marriage partner for their daughter. (I wasn’t, yet, and yes, he is now married).

May your Pesach be memorable, and for a smile-inducing reason.

Mrs. Devora Farrell is not procrastinating organizing for or from Pesach; she just doesn’t have to, this year. Please don’t be jealous. This means that she is more available to help you with yours, so that you can experience your own redemption from whatever narrow place you find yourself in. Call her at (973) 919-7761 or visit her website www.thisorganized.com to book an appointment.